


Our House

by CiaraSky



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Happy Murphy, Music, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3531536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CiaraSky/pseuds/CiaraSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy finds himself in the lighthouse. Post 2x16.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our House

**Author's Note:**

> So this is just a quick drabble I came up with after the finale bc I had a lot of feels about my trash baby son and I needed him to be happy, so here you go!  
> Not beta'd, so all mistakes are mine.  
> The first song mentioned is "Our House" by Madness, the second one (at the end) is "Back in Black" by AC/DC. Have fun reading (: (and cry in the comments if you are as dead inside as I am)

Murphy couldn’t believe it. And he couldn’t make anything of what the dude said before he shot himself. He doesn’t find any clues as to how old the video is and honestly, Murphy doesn’t want to know. That dude obviously had some problems (not like he himself doesn’t have any, right) and he’s dead. So there isn’t anything Murphy can do.

He gulps, the liquor still heavy on his tongue, as suddenly, the video cuts out. The body of the dude is burned into his retina, but Murphy tears his eyes away from the black screen. The whiskey in his glass glows amber colored and he swirls it, but he really doesn’t want to take another sip. He puts the glass down on the small table next to his chair and stands up. His arm stings and he looks down at the bloody bandage.

“Destiny, huh,” he says to himself as he crosses the room until he stands in front of a wooden door. He turns the knob and his eyes widen as the door swings open. Unbelieving, he steps into the room.

A big bed stands right before him, white clean covers on soft looking blankets pulling him closer. After a few steps his knees bump against the bedframe and his fingers reach out for the fabric. (He might shiver when he first touches the soft blanket, but mind you, he’d never admit it). And then he lets himself fall face first into the blankets and fucking hell, they’re even softer than they looked now that he’s lying on them. He huffs a laugh as he buries his face into the covers before he takes a deep breath. Maybe the _Promised Land_ isn’t so bad after all.

He lets himself relax for a bit before a thought crosses his mind. He rolls off the bed and looks around the room. And yes, there’s another door next to the one he came in. He hurries over to it and almost shouts in happiness when his finds a bathroom behind it. Murphy dashes over to the shower, pulling the doors open and inspects the knobs on the wall. They are different from those they had on the Ark, two, one left and one right. He turns the left one and water comes spluttering out of the shower head. Murphy looks at it in surprise, almost laughing. He takes a step back and scrambles out of his clothes, dropping them in a careless heap on the floor. Steam starts to billow inside the shower and Murphy heads inside.

“Mother _fucker_!” he screams as the water almost burns his skin and he frantically searches for the knob to turn the temperature down, water running down into his eyes. He turns the right knob and cautiously tests the water with his foot and yes, it’s not as hot anymore. Murphy steps under the stream and dunks his head under the steady flow, the water running down his face. And somehow he feels like crying (out of happiness, and maybe a bit because Craig’s face flashes before his eyes, but he pushes that thought away). He rakes his fingers through his matted hair as the water soaks into them, and he feels the sand and sweat being washed out of his strands as he untangles them. He can’t believe this is the first shower he had in two months.

Murphy goes on to wash his face, the crusted blood softening and eventually washing off. He feels the sand under his feet on the surface of the shower floor as the water continues to flow over his body and he closes his eyes, just for a moment. He can’t believe his journey, everything that happened on the way here. Most of it feels like a dark nightmare.

He scrubs himself clean again before he turns the shower off and opens the shower door. A shiver runs down his spine as the colder air hits him and he searches for a towel, finding one nearby. He brushes the water drops off of his skin before he rubs his hair dry, as much as the towel allows. Then he slings it around his hips and heads over to the sinks, a big ass mirror stretching from one side of the room to the other. He wipes a patch clear from the steam.

“Man, you look like shit,” Murphy says to himself as he inspects his chapped lips in the mirror, his tanned skin and untangled hair. He runs his hand through it, pushing a few stray strand out of his face. Then he turns around and heads over into the bedroom again.

He spots a wardrobe but honestly, right now he couldn’t care less about clothes. He’s clean, for the first time in forever, and nobody’s trying to hang him, or torture him or bite off his arm. It’s a start, right?

So he goes into the living room again and finds the music player that was on when he first got here. A small display shows him the song that played and he pushes the ‘next’ icon, and the display changes.

Deep piano tunes mixed with drums in the backgrounds start blearing from the speakers in the corners of the room, the rhythm catchy. Murphy nods his head to the beat. Trumpets set in, deep and high, and finally a man begins to sing. Slowly, the music crawls into his toes and his whole body begins to move. He dances around the room, spinning, for once not a care in the world on his mind. An instrumental part follow the singing, guitar and some other kind of instrument Murphy can’t identify, changing the beat for a moment, before the singing starts again.

“Our house in the middle of the street, OUR HOUSE!” Murphy suddenly finds himself singing along, his voice raspier that he remembered it. The sprechgesang following throws him off, but he doesn’t care. He fetches the glass of whiskey where he left it, drowning the rest of it in one sips, before he dances around again.

But the song slowly comes to an end and a new one starts. And Murphy’s stomach grumbles, despite the… _thing_ (whatever that was) he ate earlier, so he heads over into the kitchen again, searching through the brown paper bags, but all he finds are more of these piece of bread (because what else could it be. He never heard of anything else looking and tasting like this besides bread). So he takes one and eats it. It’s better than nothing. He refills his glass with whiskey but as he puts the bottle down, he finds himself staring at the amber liquid. He takes the glass with his free hand and raises it.

“Craig, Richards, this is for you.” He doesn’t know when it happened, but he did became friends with them during the journey, and honestly, he never wants to see Jaha again after what he did. At least Craig didn’t have to die. If only Jaha hadn’t…

Murphy brings the glass to his lips and takes a generous gulp. He cringes at the taste, the alcohol unfamiliar on his tongue and in his throat, burning its way down into his stomach. If the alcohol makes him forget the last night, he’ll be glad for it.

*

Murphy lets the music run in the background the whole day, a weird mix of rock and pop and some synthy, but they didn’t have music on the ark, only on special occasions, but he never has been able to be at those parties.

He plays air guitar on the cue to a particular rocky song with heavy guitar parts (and he may or may not head-bang and it makes him smile). He eats another piece of the bread and he finds some deep-frozen meat. He has no idea about any of this so he puts it in a pan and it ends up being black on the outside and still frozen in the inside and he curses. Some nice meat would have been awesome at this point.

Pretty soon, Murphy starts to get tired. Hell, he deserves to sleep for a week straight. But he doesn’t want to go to bed just yet. He goes into to bedroom, standing in front of the massive wardrobe, and picks out briefs, a jeans and a shirt. Because he remembers where he is.

He heads out of the apartment and finds the stairs leading up to the top of the lighthouse. He’s exhausted, but he wants to look around from the top of the lighthouse once, now, before it may be too late. The stairs seem endless but after a few minutes of relentless climbing, he comes to a halt in front of a metal door and pushes it open.

He steps into the wide, open room, the wind messing up his hair as he looks over the vast body of water before him. Murphy walks towards the railing, letting his gaze wander. The sun is slowly setting, tinting everything in orange, and he sighs. He spots the boat with which they came here sitting at the shore, and his fingers search for the metal of the railing.

“Sacrifice the few to save the many my ass,” he whispers into the dusk before he turns around and heads inside again.

 

As soon as he hits the covers back in the bedroom and closes his eyes, he falls asleep. His hand still hurts and his skin itches, but he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

And if he stays under the covers for longer than necessary the next morning, well, then so it is, and nobody is there to call him out on it, right?


End file.
